


Grille 221b

by Thor_The_PopTart_Slut



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Double Entendre, Food, M/M, Sherlock Knows How to Handle John's Meat, Sherlock Tops John But Good, Sherlock is a Master of Topping, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 23:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3828166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thor_The_PopTart_Slut/pseuds/Thor_The_PopTart_Slut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock tops for John, and John never wants anyone else to top for him again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grille 221b

**Author's Note:**

> I only know the canon by "osmosis" so any _Sherlock BBC_ –picking (or Britpicking) in comments is cool. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy this fic of Sherlock topping John.

“Welcome to Grille 221b,” said the petite woman with the ginger queue and the neat white uniform. Her nametag said MOLLY. 

“Thanks, love,” John said. He felt a little awkward; he didn’t usually dine alone, but Mary had a late shift at the hospital tonight.

“Would you like to sit right at the grill? You can watch our chef work. He’s quite the dab.”

“That sounds fine,” John said. He followed Molly into the bowels of the large, cavernous space, dimly lit except for red neon lights. Its echoes swallowed up conversation and the clatter of cookware and dishes.

Molly stopped at one end of the long counter in front of the grill. It was early for dinner, only a few patrons seated on the stools there. John took the second stool in. The chef, a tall man whose ebony curls were escaping from under his puffy toque, had his back to them.

Molly flashed him a grin that the doctor could only call conspiratorial. “He’ll take care of _all_ your needs,” she said. “Our Sherlock is not only an expert at handling meat, but … he’s brilliant at topping.” And, with that, she turned and walked back toward the front door, where there stood a new group of patrons waiting to be seated.

John, a bit bemused, turned forward just as the chef did. He immediately caught his breath at the reptilian beauty of the man’s face, how its planes and angles seemed to shift in the dim, watery light, just as his eyes seemed to shift from green to blue and back again within a fraction of a second.

“How can I service you, sir?” the chef — Sherlock, was it? — murmured. John raised his brows. Surely the man had said _serve_ , not _service_ , and John’s imagination plus the acoustics were playing a trick on him?

“Er. Well, I’d like a hamburger.”

“And how would you like me to do your meat, sir?” Sherlock asked in a strangely charged voice.

“Oh. I, I usually I like it medium well,” the doctor said.

“If you don’t mind a bit of advice…” Sherlock began hesitantly. When John didn’t object, the chef continued, “I would suggest no more than medium, which would render your meat pink and firm. But meat is best, really, when it’s medium rare. That will still leave it fairly firm, but the centre will be a nice, warm red.”

“Oh.” John found himself blushing for no reason he could ascertain. “Well, then, medium rare it is.”

“Very good, sir. And… how would you like it topped?”

“I… hadn’t really thought of that,” John said. “Usually I don’t put much on it, just a little brown sauce and mustard.”

“Well,” Sherlock said, grinning in a way that for some reason brought the word _filthy_ to John’s mind, “if you allow me to do the topping for you, I think you will be most pleased. In fact, you’ll never want anyone else to top for you again.”

Still quite warm-faced, John said, “Um, sure. That’ll be fine.”

Sherlock, grinning even more broadly, took a thick, heavy patty of beef from between two squares of waxed paper. It fell onto the hot grill between the two men with a loud sizzle. The chef flipped it only a handful of times before turning it one last time onto the bottom half of a roll, on a white plate. “Here, I’ll show you what I was talking about,” he said, and, knife in hand, cut a hole right into the centre of the beefburger. The deep, meaty red hole quivered faintly at the touch of Sherlock’s long, sturdy implement.

“Oh. Er. Yes, brilliant,” the doctor said. Perhaps it was the heat radiating off the grill that was making him feel so warm?

“And now,” Sherlock said, “I will top for you. Have you any preferences?”

“…um?” John blinked.

“We offer quite the choice of toppings here at Grille 221b. Would you like me to lay pork on top of your meat? Do you like cheese on your burger, and, if so, do you like it strong? mild? smoked? Any sort of mayonnaise, or tomato-based sauce, or other sort or sauce? And what kinds of veg? Fresh, pickled, cooked in some manner? I’ve a paper checklist and a pencil I could give you, if you need some time to decide.”

“Oh. Actually,” John said, “Molly there said you were brilliant at topping.” Suddenly he smiled. “I’ll trust you to top in any way you think will please me.”

Sherlock said nothing for a moment, just raised his brows. Then, for the next two minutes, his hands never stopped moving. He began by cracking an egg over the grill. Then, as the doctor watched in awe, Sherlock alternated between flipping the egg and absolutely smothering John’s meat.

He started with a thick slab of melted Reblochon directly on the beefburger itself. Atop that, he added a few roasted red peppers, filling the spaces in between them with dollops of red onion chutney. Over this mosaic he laid a few strips of sweet cure bacon, and, once these were in place, he flipped the egg neatly atop them. Finally, he set a generous slice of avocado on top of the egg, spread truffle mayonnaise on the underside of the top part of the roll, and set it down onto the entire affair.

“There,” the chef said with pride, setting the heavily laden meat before John. The doctor fastidiously tucked a napkin into his collar before he picked up the burger and sank his teeth into it.

“Ummmmmmmmmm,” he moaned abjectly. The juice fairly oozed out of the meat into his mouth, and its strong, almost gamey flavor commingled with those of all the toppings to slam into his taste buds like a Category 5 culinary hurricane and transport him into ecstasy.

“I told you,” Sherlock said smugly, as he watched the juice trickle down John’s chin while the doctor hummed euphorically around his mouthful of meat. “Nobody tops like me. _Nobody._ ”

John swallowed. Looking up at Sherlock with eyes that felt rather dewy, he said with profound humility and satiation, “Sherlock, you can top for me _any time._ ”


End file.
